


contest coming

by frausorge



Series: fourteen wins [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, San Jose Sharks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 21:16:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8260745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frausorge/pseuds/frausorge
Summary: The Jones boy aims to play.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title and summary from Michelle Shocked.

The third game against Nashville is the ugliest of the playoffs so far. When they get back to the hotel, Martin's thinking about just putting on his sleep mask and crawling into bed, but Reimer puts a hand on his arm and says, "Hey, come hang out for a bit."

Martin goes, but he knows he's not being very good company. He only nods his thanks for the food Reimer orders, and completely fails to follow the plot of the movie Reimer puts on. 

"Come on, Joner," Reims says, throwing an arm around him. "Stop dwelling."

"I'm not thinking about tonight," Martin says. "I'm thinking about Thursday."

"Well, don't," Reims says. He rubs at Martin's shoulders. "You've got this. Unless, what, do you feel like you need a break or something?"

"No, no," Martin says. He means to add something else, but he's distracted by Reimer running his fingers up into Martin's hair. When Martin doesn't say anything, Reimer does it again, and again. It feels soothing, the smooth, firm strokes over his scalp. 

Reimer's hand comes to rest against the side of Martin's throat. His thigh is a warm line against Martin's, and his eyes are even warmer.

"I should- go," Martin says. "It's late."

"You can crash here," Reimer says.

"I, uh, I need my, my bags," Martin says. He shifts away, ducking his head, and slides off the far side of the bed. Reimer is still studying him with that same expression.

"Ok," Reimer says. "Sleep well. See you tomorrow."

"Night," Martin says. He shoves his feet into his shoes and heads out the door.

 

Game 4 quickly becomes the new ugliest, a mess of deflections and rebounds and reviews. Martin lets in the tying goal with four minutes left in the third. He stands up, drinks some water, and looks ahead to block the next shot, and the next. The period ends and they're still tied.

They go to overtime. Pavs scores, except he used his hand, except he got his stick on it, except he touched Rinne and there's no goal. They play on.

They go to double overtime.

They go to triple overtime.

Eleven minutes in, Martin fails to control a rebound, and the game ends.

The plane is filled with a seething, exhausted silence. Reims sits down next to Martin and wraps a hand around the back of his neck, rubbing up to his hairline and down to the top of his spine. Martin only just manages to stop himself from shrugging off the touch. "Quit it," he mutters.

"Hey, take it easy," Reimer says.

"Easy!" Martin says. But he doesn't have the energy to voice the rest of his protest.

Reimer smiles and shakes his head. "Man, you are wiped. You need a break now? Want me to spell you?" 

Martin stares.

Reimer raises his eyebrows.

"No," Martin says, with as much steel in his voice as he can muster.

"Just trying to help," Reimer says. He flexes the hand he still has on Martin's neck once more, his fingertips dipping down inside Martin's collar. Then he lets go, turns his face toward the aisle, and closes his eyes.

 

"And Jonesy, you're in net," Pete says on Saturday morning. 

Martin watches Reimer's bent head until Reims looks up and meets his eyes. Reims gives him a narrow smile.


End file.
